Quoted By:
>Bargain bin
You wander idly down the aisle, running your thumb along the wooden shelf in the hopes something will leap out to you. You're roughly in the 'comestibles' section, but Roscoe's organization tends toward the free-associative, so there's also spoons and knives and nets and hunting gear. This kind of thing never would've flown back at home, where your dad ran a tight ship. But that's what a lack of competition gets you, you guess.
You really shouldn't be too hard on this place, though, since it <span class="mu-i">is</span> the only game in town— you don't count, you source things bespoke— and it's well-kempt and relatively well-supplied, all considered. And cheap. You've tried to subtly advise poor Ross on the concept of 'profit margins' before, but he doesn't seem to grasp it. That, and the value of branding. 15 years, he says, and he hasn't slapped any kind of name on it? Even for shorthand? You've brought that up less subtly, and the guy tells you he doesn't need one. "There's only one general store." Fucker. Maybe he looks a little how Ashley did, but <span class="mu-i">Ash</span> had a healthy respect for the directives of the market, not a fucking devil-may-care— ow!
Ow. Shit. That is a splinter lodged in your thumb. And that is maybe a sign that— that all of this has gone way too far. You already barfed all your lousy feelings up once; are you planning on repeating that stunt? Is it a sound and sane idea to go wandering around a little store and stirring up memories? Obviously not. You need to get something for Charlotte and get the fuck out into the sunshine. Make sure Pat hasn't started experimenting on anyone. (You thought it'd be okay to leave her unchaperoned, but frankly who knows.)
So you're back to "what to get," but you have a better answer this time: the cheapest thing you lay your eyes on. Fuck this nightmare. If it can't put in the effort to conjure up actual ghosts or monsters or hallucinations of your parents, you're not going to be putting in any, either. You stop where you are, scan 360 degrees, and spot a bin of ratty-looking socks (ALSO USEFUL POUCHES, SCRUBBERS, PROTECTIVE COVERS, says the label). Bingo.
<span class="mu-r">-----</span>
You are ROSCOE PRATER. Your only customer has tossed a pair of socks onto the counter.
"...Is that for you?" you say carefully.
"Nope." Madrigal doesn't seem to catch your meaning. "For a gift. Pretty fucking snazzy, huh?"
Maybe you would've said something more if she hadn't spilled her guts out over the floor five minutes ago. Maybe. But right now, it's just in poor taste. "Sure is. Hope they enjoy it. That'll be—"
She tosses a big rock onto the counter. "That enough?"
"...Sure will." (That much chit could buy ten pairs of socks. At least.) "You're sure you don't want—?"
(1/2)
